The Purgatory Chronicles
by winchesterdelight
Summary: What really happened in Purgatory? In this story, Dean, Benny, and Castiel fight their way through the monster afterlife to find their way back to Earth. But will they leave in the same state they came?


Chapter One

The Wolf

He realized that what he really wanted as he darted through the trees of a harsh grey world was a stiff drink. A stiff drink and a cheeseburger.

It was his go-to meal after he finished a hunt: a grease-slathered cheeseburger with whatever booze was cheapest at the first skeezy dive bar he and his brother could find. Even with how his view of fast food had changed over the past few months, he still craved the oily smell under his nose and the warm taste against his tongue. It was the whiskey that always topped it off to perfection, though. Like a bitter chaser to keep himself from enjoying the experience for too long. That could be said of his relationship with alcohol in general, he supposed. Some people said it numbed the pain, but for Dean, it kept him miserable. And part of him liked it that way.

He thought of that pain as he sprinted through the woods—washing away the good things with the bad after sinking his teeth into a cheeseburger. He was trying to avoid the teeth sinking into him, now.

That's what Purgatory was, though. Survival.

At times, when he had been Home, Dean Winchester had run so fast that he felt as if he were superhuman. That he was more than the sorry excuse for a man he really was, with legs that were powered by something unnatural. He had run from just about everything—vampires, demons, even the occasional deranged human—but that had been child's play compared to the running he was doing here. From the moment he awoke in what constituted morning to the moment he collapsed in exhaustion against the softest tree he could find, he was running. Even when he wasn't being chased by one of the inhabitants of the realm, his walk was still more of a brisk jog than a stroll through the woods. As he panted, he thought, very realistically, that he might never actually _walk_ again. The remainder of his life could be composed of continuous chases, from one monster to other. Until he couldn't outrun them anymore.

Leaves crunched under his feet as he pounded through the forest, but the sound that overwhelmed his senses was the snarling that came from yards behind him. A werewolf snarl, laced with bloodlust and fury. Every tearing growl grated in his ears like ripping steel. Dean felt as though the wolves were mere inches away from him, and it would only be a quick reach outward for them to embed their claws into the side of his neck. But a quick look back showed him that the two wolves on his tail were several yards behind, sprinting after him with tenacity, but not fast enough to close the distance between them. That gave him a momentary boost in confidence.

_I'm faster than them_, Dean thought. _I'm faster than a fucking wolf. I _am _a wolf._

He gave a minute shake of his head, the fleeting thought catching him off guard. But he quickly turned his attention back to the trees ahead of him, making sure that his speed didn't interfere with his navigation. The last thing he needed was to be splattered against the tree bark and do the wolves' job for them.

He was going to have to face them eventually. The thought wasn't something he liked to entertain, but more likely than not he would have to stop running and face them, blade in hand. He normally wouldn't have given slicing a few werewolves in half a second thought, but here, he was trying to avoid it for as long as he could. He was still trying to gather who he was in this world—hunter or prey. At Home, he knew exactly what he was, but here…well, it was a toss-up.

Things were different here. Dean just wasn't sure exactly how yet.

Instinctively, he leapt over a fallen tree branch in his path, but the jump came up short, and the toe of his boot caught on the rough bark. For a moment, Dean was flying, feet off the ground and soaring through the air. He hovered in the air in a brief moment of infinity before gravity wrapped itself around him and pulled him back to the ground. Colliding with the earth hurt like hell—and he tried not to scoff at the comparison through his gritted teeth. He actually knew what Hell hurt like, and it was nothing so good as this.

Ignoring the aching feeling that ran through his bones, Dean scrambled back onto his hands and knees, frantically crawling through the dry brush. He hadn't anticipated falling, and the logical part of him told him to stand up, while the rest of his reflexes said to keep running. The mixing signals combined to make an awkward dance that looked more like a frazzled Chihuahua running away from an impending vet visit than the most notorious monster hunter in America. Just as his wits started returning to him and he started to stand, Dean felt a sharp shove against his back, right between his shoulder blades, and he went flailing onto his stomach. Dizzy, he attempted to prop himself back up onto his arms, but a pair of hands grabbed him and flipped him over roughly onto his back. Every instinct in him told him to lash out with everything he had—arms, legs, teeth. But he was pinned, his limbs restrained by two towering werewolves, looming above him with drooling delight.

Werewolves were definitely more _were_ than _wolf,_ with unmistakable human bodies and facial structures. At first glance, they seemed to be just very pissed off humans, but once you really looked at them, there was no way to mistake them for anything but monster. Colorless eyes and sharpened teeth were all that Dean could see snarling in his face, even amongst smooth pale human skin and draping blonde hair. Amid the struggle, Dean could make out that the wolves were both female, blonde, and…come to think of it, they looked awfully similar.

_Ah, shit_, he thought, letting his head drop to the ground. _Twins_. _There goes that fantasy_.

He made another feeble attempt to break free of his fantasy-gone-wrong, but the werewolf girls' grip on him was too tight. He pushed, but nothing came of it. Come on, dammit, he urged himself. This couldn't be how he would bite it, after all this time. He had been in a fist fight with Satan and lived, for crying out loud. Losing this fight, compared to everything else he had fought against, would be plain pathetic. Move it, Winchester, he thought, but all of the determination in the world wasn't going to make the werewolf girls loosen their hold on him.

Dean's vision was awash in pearly white fangs, grinning down at him with smug victory.

Claws burrowed into his forearms, and he closed his eyes, bracing for impact.

A gruff cry sounded off above him, and Dean's eyes flew open just in time to see the head of one of the werewolf twins twisting unnaturally, neck snapping with a sickening crunch. Her head was between two large, dirt-ridden hands belonging to a man standing behind the girl. His presence in the world was strange, not altogether compliant with their harsh surroundings. He had a round face with a ginger beard that was greying, while his assuredly matching hair was covered by a messenger hat. He was dressed in a tattered pea coat and a simple shirt and trousers, but every other feature paled in comparison to his teeth. Several rows of needle-like, razor-sharp teeth pushed their way through the man's mouth, covering up the human teeth that Dean was sure he had.

The image hovered in his vision for a moment—the girl's head between the man's hands, like he was about to score the game-winning shot in a basketball game—before she finally crumpled into a heap on the ground beside Dean. Instantly, the weight she had been forcing down onto his arm lifted, and Dean took the opportunity to shove the remaining wolf girl off to the side. She snarled, but he was able to do it, and she went toppling into the dirt. Her tattered jeans and canvas jacket smeared with dirt as she skidded across the forest floor, but her growl never subsided.

The man with the beard grunted, starting in after the wolf girl, but Dean was closer, and he threw himself at her with tenacity. Landing on the girl, he held her pinned by keeping a knee on her chest as she writhed and clawed at him, trying to break free. Drawing out a machete from the waistband of his jeans, though, he put an end to her struggle. The blade sliced cleanly through her neck, severing her head from her body. Everything underneath him went limp.

He was used to it enough, by now. The fan of blood like warm rain on his face. Back Home, he dealt with it as best as he could-trying not to shudder and vomit at the thought of it covering him. While his line of work was dirtier than most, Dean still had a thing about being clean. The thought of how many germs covered a toilet seat, the way his skin crawled when he saw all the severed limbs he did throughout his day-to-day. He couldn't help but get the heebs about it. Whenever he got bloodied up like this-especially with someone else's blood-he counted down the minutes before he could go take a hot shower. Not that that was possible out here.

But in that moment, Dean didn't care that the wolf's blood was coating his face like a hot, sticky paint. It felt okay. No, more than that. It felt right.

It took everything within him to hold back a howl of delight.

"Nice one," the bearded man called out from behind him.

His voice shook Dean out of his reverie, and he forced himself to wipe the smile off of his face. Standing up, he looked back down at the wolf girl's still open eyes. They were clouding over as he wiped the machete on his jacket sleeve, turning the already colorless eyes into a misty grey. And her teeth...her teeth were still barred. Ready to kill.

Absently, Dean's tongue ran across his own.

"Thanks," he said, sliding the blade back into his waistband. "Now, let's get out of here."


End file.
